


ruat caelum (fiat justitia)

by The_Wavesinger



Category: Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: Background Antiope/Menalippe, Gen, Minor Violence, Themyscira
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-16 13:45:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13055181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/pseuds/The_Wavesinger
Summary: “Antiope. Hestia tried to kill her lover just past sunset today.”Diana learns justice and mercy at her mother's knee.





	ruat caelum (fiat justitia)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [templeandarche](https://archiveofourown.org/users/templeandarche/gifts).



“Antiope. Antiope.”

She can feel, vaguely, a hand on her shoulder, shaking her with a vigour that is _quite_ annoying, and she's still too sleep-slow to shrug it away. Any attempt to remove it, she thinks, will require actually waking up, and she doesn't _want—_

“Antiope!”

And the fog of half-dreams disappears, and she's rising, bypassing sitting in favour of leaping up. Even as she reaches for her sword, though, she realizes that she was lying, moments ago, on a soft bed and not hard ground, and that the person calling her name is not a messenger or footsoldier but Menalippe.

She sighs, and slides her sword back into her scabbard. “You gave me quite a fright, love.” (And, she would say, she gave Menalippe quite a fright, but she knows she didn't. Menalippe has witnessed far more startling awakenings than this one, legacies they still bear of the war.)

Usually, Menalippe smiles and dismisses her words with a few well-chosen phrases of her own, understanding etched into her face (Antiope is not the only one with demons, after all). Now, however, she's frowning, the candlelight casting her unusually grim expression in sharp relief. “Antiope, there's an urgent message for you. You're wanted immediately.”

Oh, _Heavens_. The last time she received such a message in the dead of the night had been when wildfires broke out in the south of the island. If something like that happens again—

She's donning her armour before she has time to think, going through practised motions. “I assume you can tell me more while we walk.”

But when she turns around, Menalippe is frowning. “No, Antiope. The summons was for you, and for you only, and to Hippolyta's private audience chambers. I am quite in the dark about this.”

A sigh of relief (not fires, then), transformed into a lance of fear that strikes her right through her heart. _Diana._

The kiss she bestows on Menalippe as she leaves is perfunctory, and her strides are lengthened by fear as she walks through the halls as quick as possible. She knocks on the door of Hippolyta's audience chambers, and, not waiting for a response, opens it.

Or tries to.

It's bolted shut, which is something Antiope has no memory of _ever_ having happened before, and her thoughts spiral into a new whirlwind of panic (why what danger is this), panic that she quickly checks. “Hippolyta? It's me, Antiope.”

She hears the click of the door being opened, and as soon as she's inside, it's slammed shut and locked again. The precaution raises her hackles even as she turns to face her sister. “Hippolyta, why—”

She cuts herself off when she sees the expression on Hippolyta's face. She's pale and visibly unsettled, and her eyes are a maelstrom of anger and— _fear_?

“Hippolyta?”

She cannot help but reach for Hippolyta, but she's stopped by shaky words:

“Antiope. Hestia tried to kill her lover Amastris just past sunset today.”

—

An hour and an explanation later (multiple explanations, Hippolyta herself shocked and disbelieving even as she told the story), Antiope is—

She doesn't have words for the emotions inside her, each rising quickly and falling away as a new feeling takes its place. Hippolyta's words echo in her skull. A murder. Someone had tried to murder another in Themyscira.

Antiope does not have anything but a passing acquaintance with Hestia, but she's still completely, utterly horrified. To think that someone could try—even in a fit of rage, to even _think_ of—

But she cannot even complete the thought; instead, she places her head on Menalippe's shoulder and closes her eye and breathes.

—

“Diana is safe, at least,” Hippolyta had told Antiope, her voice trembling. “When I first received the message, I thought—” But she hadn't needed to go on; Antiope knew _exactly_ what she'd thought.

Diana is safe, at least, Antiope thinks absently. She's in her rooms, with strict instructions not to wander outside.

(“But _why_ ,” Diana had asked, and Antiope hadn't been able to reply. Hippolyta had ordered her not to tell Diana, and stupid as she thought that was—better that Diana find out from Antiope or Hippolyta than from anyone else—she wouldn't disobey Hippolyta.)

She's visiting Amastris now. Hestia she hadn't known well—hadn't known at all, really—but Amastris is one of _her_ warriors, and it's her duty.

And Amastris isn't that grievously injured. “I'm fine, General,” she says, and she's awake to say that, and so Antiope heaves a sigh of relief. It isn't a death-wound, though the sword was plunged through Amastris' gut. By some miracle, she has escaped without bleeding out or permanently destroying her insides.

“But,” Amastris says, “She intended to kill me. I love her, and she loves me, but she was angry, and she didn't—”

Here, she breaks off, and Antiope can see her fighting back the tears. “She may not have meant to, General, and she was terrified as soon as she realized what she'd done, but in that moment, she wanted to kill me. I've never been so scared in my life.”

And Amastris has been at her side since the very beginning, lived through war, and so that is the strongest condemnation that Antiope hears. She bows her head and holds Amastris' hand. “It's over, Amastris. You're—”

She can't say _fine_ , and Amastris must divine that, for her breath catches in her throat. “General—”

But here Amastris' voice fails her, and she begins to weep, a dam breaking and her attempt at stoicness dissolving into a flood of grief and misery.

There is nothing Antiope can do but provide a steadying presence and embrace her soldier. She is helpless in the face of Amastris' pain, helpless in a way she has not been for a long time.

 _Hestia,_ she thinks, you may not have meant to, _but you have done a great wrong and brought a darkness upon Themyscira._

—

Menalippe and Antiope are sprawled on the ground, running through maps and details and contingency plans for when the sentencing will happen, when they're interrupted.

It's not a _polite_ interruption but a messenger barging into the room, without so much as a knock. Antiope frowns. What—

“General Antiope.” The messenger is panting, droplets of sweat shimmering on her forehead.

Antiope sits up, attempting to ignore the uneasy feeling building at the pit of her stomach. “What's wrong?”

“The...prisoner has escaped.”

There is only one thought in Antiope's mind as soon as she hears the words: “ _Diana_.”

And then the messenger says, “General, I'm very sorry. But. The Princess is missing too.”

—

It doesn't take long to find Diana—perhaps six or seven hours—but those hours are the longest of Antiope's life (and she is a general who has lived through war).

She's deep in the woods, in a clearing that Antiope hadn't known existed, lying on the grass. And next to her—

Next to her is the _criminal_. That would-be-murderer, sprawled on the grass next to _her_ Diana, clutching Diana's hand and whispering something into Diana's ear.

“ _What is the meaning of this?”_

Antiope doesn't mean to shout, but she can't seem to stop herself, fierce rage lending volume to her voice. And her anger serves one purpose, at least: her soldiers swarm across the clearing and surround Diana and her—companion in a ring, positioned to prevent any attempt at escape.

“I—”

Diana is speaking, but Antiope ignores her, stalking towards the woman who is still lying down next to Diana, curled in on herself now. “Get _up_ ,” she snaps. Then, when the woman makes no move to do so, she reaches out—

And Diana darts in front of the woman, catching Antiope's hand in hers. “ _Don't kill her!_ ”

Antiope stops. She stops, because Diana is in front of her and she would rather take her own life than hurt Diana. And she won't shout at Diana. “Diana. I'm not going to kill her. Now please move away.”

“I don't want to.” Diana glares at her.

“Diana. Please—”

“I don't want to!” Diana snaps.

Antiope knows Diana's stubbornness intimately, but she hasn't yet figured out how to subdue it. And yet—

“General!” Clymene calls, “The Queen is coming!”

A split second of relief (she loves Diana, but sometimes, she's glad that she's Hippolyta's daughter and not hers), and then Hippolyta is thundering into the clearing atop her white charger, cloaks swirling and hair still undone.

She's incandescent with fury, and, for a moment, Antiope sees a hint of the true wrath she knows her sister can unleash, a glimpse of the war-leader she once was. Then her face settles into its regal setting again. “Diana. Go home. Now.”

The words are quiet, but Diana shies away, hearing, doubtless, the simmering emotions beneath the calm facade. And still she stands firm, and Antiope is so very proud of her niece. “Not until you promise you're not killing Hestia.” If only she were more _sensible_ in her choice of causes.

“What—” Hippolyta turns her head towards Hestia, as if seeing her for the first time. “What have you been told, Diana, that you think I'm going to kill Hestia?”

“She says—” Diana's voice trembles for a moment, but she soldiers on. “She says you're going to kill her because she did a thing you don't like. Kill her dead because you think she was bad, and you're the queen so it's your job to punish bad people even when you don't want to. _But_ _I don't want her to die._ ”

“And what,” Hippolyta says, her voice deadly quiet, “do you think Hestia has done?”

Diana is floored for a moment. Then she crosses her arms across her chest. “It doesn't matter. She still shouldn't die.”

Hippolyta sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose, and Antiope knows the feeling. _Diana_ , oh Diana. “She's not going to die, Diana. Not now.”

“I want to make sure she doesn't die,” Diana says stubbornly. Antiope shakes her head. She'd snatch Diana away and ride off with her, protests be damned, except that's not what Hippolyta wants (and she knows that because Hippolyta is still here, talking with her).

“You're going to leave, Diana.” Hippolyta's voice is calm and even, but she's getting frustrated, Antiope knows. “And let us handle her.”

“ _And she says that you're going to kill her._ ”

This, Antiope knows, can go on indefinitely. And she's about to step in, but Hestia interrupts her. “Please, I didn't mean to.”

“You didn't mean,” Hippolyta says slowly, “to draw a sword and run it through Amastris. You didn't _mean_ to.”

“I was angry! I didn't mean it!”

“It was!” Diana cries. “Hestia is very very sorry now. She told me.”

“Diana,” Hippolyta snaps, “Stay _out_ of this.” Gentler, “And please, please go home.”

“She's saying you're going to kill her, you're saying she tried to kill someone. I don't know what's going to happen, and I won't leave until I know.” Sometimes, Antiope thinks, Diana is extraordinarily like her mother.

Hippolyta sighs. “If I allow you to come to the sentencing, will you go?”

“I don't know what that is.”

“When I say what happens to her.”

Diana deliberates for a long minute that has Antiope holding her breath. Then she nods once, decisively. “Okay.”

—

They leave Diana with Menalippe.

Hippolyta does not _want_ to (Antiope knows her well enough to divine this; they are, after all, sisters), but she has made a proclamation, and she will not now unbend, no matter how much her heart rails against it. Antiope understands, but she wishes—

Her wishes are not important. Neither her wishes nor Hippolyta's will keep Diana from growing into adulthood and into her destiny. And so they let her watch.

(But they leave her with Menalippe, not a minder. Antiope has her duties, Hippolyta has hers. And Menalippe has her own duties, too, but Antiope relieves her of them. Diana will stay with _family_ , at least, as she watches.)

The proceedings are short. The lawmakers have been debating since the founding of the island on how to perfect the trial, and now their theories have been put into practise. In other circumstances, Antiope would almost be impressed with the brevity and smoothness of the event.

But now all she can do is hold onto her anger and her grief and her fear, and hold steadfast in her place at Hippolyta's side, a solid rock for her sister to lean on if necessary.

The crime is not re-accounted, and they do not, mercifully, have to hear words in Hestia's defence. Hippolyta held those courts privately, and now all she has to do is decide.

Hestia is brought out, and she's wide-eyed and visibly holding back tears. A flash of contempt runs through Antiope. _Hold yourself with pride, at least, and admit to your wrongs. Coward._

Hippolyta draws herself up to her full height and looks down at Hestia. She doesn't frown, only looks, but Antiope has seen the power of her sister's looks and doesn't wonder at the fact that Hestia quails, looking, if possible, even more terrified than before.

Then Hippolyta sighs. Not loudly, and only Antiope hears it, but it is a sigh, gone as quickly as the terrible grief Antiope sees, for a moment, on her sister's face. “Hestia, look at me.”

Hestia does not look up.

One of the guards, Myrina snaps, “That's an order from your queen. _Look at her._ ”

Hestia still doesn't look up.

Myrina makes to shake her—or slap her, but Antiope would like to think that her people exhibit _some_ restraint—but Hippolyta shakes her head sharply. “No. Let her stay.”

And so Hestia stares at the ground as Hippolyta recounts her crimes in a slow, ponderous voice far removed from her ordinary words. And then—

Then Hippolyta must decide on the punishment. A punishment lawmakers have agreed on beforehand, yes (even if this fact isn't common knowledge), but it's up to Hippolyta to make that into law.

Antiope knows, already, what the sentence will be, and so when it is pronounced (exile, too lenient a fate in her opinion), she isn't shocked. Her people, those of them she has told and prepared, are ready, too. They will do what is needed.

First, the cut.

In this, at least, Hippolyta is merciful. “You may do this yourself, or you may have one of our warriors do it for you.”

Hestia is pale and trembling, and for a moment, Antiope thinks, _let her go. Let her be free._

But she has done too much. She cannot be allowed to escape without consequence, and this punishment is both crueller and more lenient than death.

Hestia refuses to answer, and Hippolyta sighs. “I will make that choice for you, then.”

She makes the cut with her own sword, quick, sharp and clean; the blood falls onto the ground, a wine-red stain on grey flagstones. (Menalippe covers Diana's eyes. This is not for a child to see.) “You are hereby banished from Themyscira and the land and sea and air under the protection of Amazons. You are exiled to the world of mankind, there to remain until you have repented and made amends. Then, only then, will the barrier admit you to this island again.”

The words are simple and without flourish, but they ring out clear across the courtyard. The still silence is punctuated only by Hestia's gasps, awful, death-rattle sounds that have Antiope longing to reach up and cover her ears, and Diana's hitch of breath (and Antiope sees Menalippe's hand tighten on Diana's shoulder).

“I didn't kill her!”

She's been repeating those words over and over again, and each time, Antiope has shuddered with disgust. The _intent_ had been to kill; that is cruel enough. The punishment is lenient for the crime.

Hippolyta shakes her head, and Antiope can't imagine the terrible weight that she must be bearing, to pronounce such a sentence on one of her people. “Take her to the shore.”

The Queen's orders must be obeyed, and so they do. It is a solemn procession, no words except Hestia's babble breaking the stillness of the air. And that sound is awful enough. Antiope cannot bear to listen.

She is the General, though, and so she must. She steels herself and listens, and watches, through Hestia being placed on the boat, through her shackles being removed (while surrounded by guards; this time there will be no chance of running), and through Hippolyta's awful pronouncement: “Themyscira is barred to you.” The words settle heavily onto their shoulders, and Antiope has to make an effort to stop herself from slumping. _Barred. Forever._ She cannot imagine what that must feel like. “Set foot on this land before you have atoned for your wrongs, and you forfeit your life.”

And then she is cast off, into the ocean, to whatever fate awaits traitors and murderers in the lands of men.

“She's gone,” Diana says, softly. Then she begins to sob. “She's _gone_.”

Antiope has nothing to say to that. (Or, she does, but _Amastris could have been gone, too, if not for fate and gone in a way that Hestia is not_ is not an appropriate response. They have shielded Diana from the full ugliness of the attack, such as they could, and she does not intend to tear away those carefully-constructed protections.)

No-one, truly, knows what to say. Hippolyta puts an arm around her daughter, but it's not comfort enough, not in the face of what Diana has seen. And she's still crying, but silently, tears rolling down her face as she hiccups,

“ _Why did she have to be bad?_ ”

“Oh my child.” Hippolyta's voice is soft and gentle, tinged with a heartbreak that Diana is still too young to understand, and aunt though she is, Antiope feels, suddenly, that she is intruding on a moment not meant for her.

Hippolyta arms wrap around Diana, and she kneels to Diana's level, whispering quiet words.

Antiope could listen, if she wanted to. She does not.

She is old enough to know better, now, has lived through a war for which she was created, and yet, too, still asks the question that Diana does. And she knows that Hippolyta does not have an answer.

—

“I wish she had not seen that, had not heard that,” Hippolyta says quietly. The two of them are the only ones left on the cliff, now, Queen and General watching the horizon, the lazily rippling air and the blue, blue ocean.

 _Then why did you allow her to watch,_ Antiope does not ask. She knows why, and does not have words to reassure or soothe. She can only allow her sister (her Queen) to curl her hand around Antiope's wrist, giving or receiving comfort she does not know.

“I wish—” But Hippolyta shakes her head. “She is young yet. She will forget.”

“And yet has the memory of an immortal. The impression will forever remain, no matter what happens to names or words.” Only between the two of them can these words be spoken, a truth only they know.

“I am counting on that.”

At Antiope's raised eyebrow, Hippolyta elaborates, “I wish—I hope that the day will never come when she will leave this island, but if she does.”

If she does, there are lessons she will need to have learnt. Antiope hums in agreement even as the words tug at a carefully-restrained part of herself. “Diana will survive.” And that much Antiope knows: Diana _will_ survive. The blood running through her veins ensures it, but, more than that, the sweat and tears and love they have given her will provide her with that aegis most essential to her, one day.

“But without anyone to lean on.” Hippolyta's fingers dig deeper into Antiope's wrist, and Antiope welcomes the pain. She knows the prophecy; they both know the prophecy.

“She will survive,” Antiope repeats. “If she ever finds herself without our guidance, she will survive.”

“I hope,” Hippolyta says, “that that day will never come.” For her sake, for my sake, for your sake. Unsaid though they are, Antiope understands the words perfectly.

“Sister mine, I am not afraid to die.”

Hippolyta does not respond, but droplets of blood well up on Antiope's wrist.

Droplets that glow jewel-bright with reflected sunlight but are still red, not gold. Hers is not the blood of gods, but she was given the life she has, and she will live it as she can, for her people, for Menalippe, for her sister, for Diana.

She closes her eyes, and allows the ocean breeze to wash over her. They will soon be called back to the city, to take up their respective duties again, but for now, she stands with Hippolyta on a cliff, Themyscira behind them, the world ahead, and tastes the sea-salt on her lips.

**Author's Note:**

> The justice system of the Amazons is based on a mishmash of various justice systems. (I was originally just going to base it on the Athenian justice system, law courts and all, but it didn't really fit the story I wanted to tell, so.)
> 
> The names of all the minor Amazon characters are based on IRL mythological Amazons, except for Hestia, whose name is that of the goddess of the hearth and home. 
> 
> (Etta, in French and English, means 'keeper of the hearth'. Make of that what you will :D.)
> 
> The phrase 'an aegis most essential' is borrowed from Alexander Hamilton (and is something he wrote on George Washington's death).


End file.
